✦ New Faith ✦ Aegon Targaryen

○ twenty three ○

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My lunch with the King left a deep, unsettling weight in my chest. His face, lined with sickness and age, lingered in my mind, and a shiver of dread ran down my spine. Seeing him so close to death, his skin thin and gray, was jarring. And yet, there was warmth in his voice when he spoke of his daughter, Rhaenyra, with pride and tenderness. I had expected someone different—a man more severe, maybe even cold, given the way Aegon had briefly mentioned him, and the hints of bitterness I’d sensed from my own father. Yet, here was a kind, almost gentle man who cherished his daughter and held on to his decision, despite the weight it had brought him.

As I left, my heart stirred with pity and respect I hadn’t known I could feel. I had imagined kings as distant and commanding, but Viserys had looked at me with soft eyes, perhaps seeing something of a daughter in me. My heart ached at his struggle, yet my mind spun with doubts: if he could hardly lift a cup, how could he carry the Seven Kingdoms?

I wandered back through the halls, my head full of troubled thoughts, and then caught sight of my father in deep conversation with Tyland Lannister, Master of Coin. I felt my stomach tighten at the sight. Whenever my father conspired with men like Tyland, it rarely meant anything good. He was always watching, always positioning.

The second he noticed me, he crossed the room, his expression serious, his mouth set in that familiar, tight line.

“Tanda,” he said, his tone calm but firm, “we’ll have supper together tonight. Just you, your mother, and I.”

I felt a flutter of happiness. Time with my family was rare now, and I could feel my smile spread. “Of course, Father. I would love that. Maybe… maybe we could visit the Sept together first?”

A surge of warmth filled me as memories of our past visits to the Sept surfaced. My father was a hard man—reserved, sharp, and often distant. But the few times he had taken me to the Sept, I had seen a gentler side. He would kneel beside me, his large hand holding mine, and his voice, steady and deep, would echo as he prayed with me. We would light candles together for the siblings my mother had lost, and I felt like, in those moments, he wasn’t just my father but also my protector, someone who saw and understood me in ways he rarely showed.

But instead of sharing a memory or a word of encouragement, he looked down, and his voice turned cold. “We leave for Sweetport Sound at dawn,” he said.

I stood frozen, feeling my chest tighten as the words sank in. Leave? So soon? The joy of our shared supper vanished, replaced by a gnawing sadness. I swallowed, forcing myself to nod, hiding the tremor in my hands as I gripped my dress. I didn’t dare say anything, didn’t want him to see how deeply the thought of his departure struck me.

Quickly, before my face could betray me, I turned and began walking back to my chambers, each step heavier than the last. The echo of his words seemed to follow me, hollow and final, filling me with an ache that felt too large to contain. My mind replayed moments from childhood, when I would wait eagerly for his approval, or the times he would let me sit on his lap as he read letters, his arms wrapped securely around me. Those were rare days, scattered like half-remembered dreams.

By the time I reached my chambers, the ache in my chest had become too much.